abraxaslogs | [ OPEN ] pre-event (until...)

( Continued from here. )

Kylo continues to be a source of intense relief. Ronan is practically dead on his feet, though he can't tell if there's something about this place that's sapping him of energy or whether it's a consequence of his last dream — the last dream.

"I can't possibly be the only one who wants to sleep next to you," he teases, with a quirk of his mouth and a quick sweep of his eyes over Kylo's substantial body. The Tower, indeed. "But I got here first, so I guess I call shotgun."

He kicks off his shoes like he's just been waiting for the excuse, then collapses into the bed beside Kylo's. Everything hurts in the best way as he sinks into the mattress, splayed like a tossed ragdoll. He'd probably be halfway to sleep already if Kylo wasn't holding so much of his attention by simply looming nearby. Ronan doesn't want to close his eyes yet.

So the problem of roommates didn't turn out to be such a problem at all. Now that Ronan's found a babysitter who's prepared to strike down any nightmares that might escape whenever his powers are restored, he can catch a reasonable amount of sleep every day.

No, the new problem is this: Ronan can sleep, but Ronan can't dream. Can't dream. He wants a new pair of boots. He wants an electric razor. He wants some fucking deodorant, because the stench of nineteen-year-old boy is getting a little too strong even for the nineteen-year-old boy in question.

And he's hungry.

He's so hungry.

He used to try to chase off this feeling by devouring every dish in sight, but there's nothing in the dining hall that can sate him and he knows it. It's a hunger that's both terrifying and extraordinarily irritating, and the only way he's figured out how to deal with it here is by not dealing with anything else. Even Ronan knows that no one deserves to get on the wrong side of his hangriness.

Confining himself to Room 2, he sits on the edge of his bed and waits. What for? Who knows. He probably won't feel it when he gets his powers back, because he never does. If he had the energy for it, he'd distract himself with pushups or go find something to hit, but if he had that kind of energy, he wouldn't need the distraction at all. The only thing he can do is sit here and feel the slow collapse of his essence, the yawning void of his unmaking, the creep of death working its way outward.

He checks his nose for a bleed. He checks his ears for a bleed. He checks his nose for a bleed.

He's so fucking hungry.

He looks like shit.

He should probably have tried this sooner. In the back of his head, he can hear Bryde's voice scolding him wearily: "You wanted a world where you could dream anywhere, and now that you have it, what have you done with it?"

"I know," Ronan mutters to himself as he leafs through a book in the library. "There are not two of me."

A nearby scholar, formerly engrossed in reading, turns a glare at him. Ronan returns it until he wins the staring contest, then drifts to another book.

Books. Fucking books. Learning magic, of all things, from fucking books. These were trees once. If they were still trees, they'd probably be a lot more useful in teaching him than they are in this corpse form, scrawled knowledge imparted in a way that makes Ronan feel like a corpse, too. This feels about as natural as Wikipedia. Does this really work for everyone else?

A quick glance around tells him yes. To his left, one mage conjures rainbow bubbles out of thin air. To his right, another lights a candle with a snap of his fingers. The scholar who ocularly scolded him now appears to be rearranging inked words.

"Fuck," sighs Ronan, shoulders sagging.

Shotgun?

Kylo frowns to himself, filing that one away for later. He's got quite the substantial list of terms and phrases whose meanings he can only guess at already, just from this conversation— Tarot, Occult, Shotgun— and without his usual rescue method of simply slipping into the speaker's mind to peek at the back of the flashcard, he's feeling intolerably ignorant.

Or he would be, if Ronan weren't distracting him with that very unusual way of looking at him. Even without his extra senses he's sure he can feel it lingering on him even after Ronan's thrown himself on the bed like he's been longing to all this time. Kylo sits back down on the edge of his own with a soft hiss, reminded by the motion of the bruises almost certainly blooming under his skin right now.

"Most people find an excuse to leave a room the moment I enter it," he informs Ronan lightly. "You're the first to fight for the honour of my company."

Ronan smiles at that little hiss of pain, obviously proud that he did some damage, even if he ultimately lost the battle. It was a good fight. A nasty one. He's looking forward to more of them.

"I can't tell if you're being modest or trying to sound cool," he says, shifting around a bit to accommodate his own aching spine. "You're not scary enough to counteract that hair. You're like a romance cover crossed with an emo rocker. That's got to be someone's type."

That someone may be in the room presently.

"The High Mage forgot to summon my helmet," Kylo says.

His mouth tugs towards a smile again, amusement pulling at his features despite something of an effort to keep them flat. The result is almost certainly at least a little bit unpleasant. Possibly very. Whatever Kylo Ren is, it appears he's not at all used to using facial expressions to communicate.

"There aren't many who've seen enough of my face to form an opinion on it."

It doesn't look unpleasant to Ronan. It looks like a stubborn flower sprouting from the cracks between concrete. He can believe what Kylo's telling him because he can see it written in those features, the unfamiliarity of compliments, even if it's still hard to believe he's the first.

"Lucky me," Ronan purrs with more gravel than usual, on account of Kylo crushing his throat earlier.

This is all very uncharted territory for Kylo, who until very recently hadn't spared much thought at all for his own attractiveness (or otherwise). It doesn't make him uncomfortable, exactly. He quite likes it. But the slight heat rising under his skin at the rumbling purr of Ronan's voice has his fingers curling into a loose grip, digging idle pressure into the mattress he's perched on. He couldn't explain why if asked.

"You," he leans in a fraction to tell Ronan over-firmly, "Are supposed to be sleeping."

Ronan bites back a reflexive yes, daddy. This isn't Gansey or Bryde he's talking to. He just met this guy a few minutes ago. While he's not exactly scared of a punch to the face, he doesn't want to push so far that Kylo rescinds his generous offer.

Instead, he says, "I'll close my eyes if you promise to keep talking."

This time, he laughs. It's short, sharp, and more like the sudden rumbling release of tectonic plates finally dragging past the point of tension than anything else.

"What shall I talk about?" he asks, deciding to indulge Ronan— if only for his persisting audacity. "It might surprise you to learn I don't know any bedtime stories."

Ronan looks wickedly pleased by that laugh. "Tell me why you're always hiding all of that under a helmet." That, of course, being the strange and beautiful face Ronan has the exclusive privilege of looking at right now.

Oh, but he's supposed to be sleeping. He takes in Kylo's features one more time, like he's committing every detail to memory, before he obediently shuts his eyes. A deal's a deal.

Well.

That's his own fault for bringing the helmet into play in the first place. Kylo considers the question thoughtfully, possibly just long enough to have Ronan wondering if he'll back out on the arrangement.

"Sometimes," he says eventually, "people make... assumptions. They see a face and assign it a story. I didn't choose the face or the story I was born to. So I chose a new one to tell my own. My face."

It feels a little hollow, now. Before Ronan can latch on, he adds:

"...And it helps to have a helmet in certain environments. Poisonous atmospheres. Extreme cold. The void of space."

That all sounds like a more personal story than Ronan was anticipating from the subject of helmets. He appreciates the answer, though, considered and delivered so thoughtfully when it would have been just as easy to brush it all aside with the latter excuse.

His eyes are open again before he even realizes it, studying Kylo once more. He could make plenty of assumptions about what he sees there, but something tells him the story Kylo's referring to is more complicated than the one Ronan's inventing.

"So you're famous."

If he could sense the ebb and flow of the Force right now, Kylo would feel Ronan's eyes on him— but he can't, and so he remains unaware. His own gaze has drifted to the idle study of his hands, resting now on his knees. His mouth twists wryly at Ronan's suggestion.

"I am."

He glances over, catching Ronan in the act of disobedience. His lips tug further into the slanted curve.

"Infamous. I don't think you're even trying, Ronan."

Ronan likes the way he says Ronan.

"Maybe you should have knocked me out," he says, holding Kylo's gaze without any shame at having been caught.

But after a moment, he shuts his eyes in another attempt to obey. He should take advantage of this rare opportunity to rest. He doesn't know when he'll get another one. The trouble is, Kylo's company seems like an equally rare opportunity, and Ronan wants to drink in as much of his attention as he can.

And it's holding him together, this distraction. He doesn't know what will happen when he eventually finds himself alone. He won't let himself even turn his thoughts to the possibility.

"I'm infamous, too," he murmurs. "But I don't hide my face."

The look Ronan earns for his trouble with that remark suggests that knocking him out isn't entirely off the table— but also that he's pleased. Which he is. Both by the way Ronan holds his gaze in unapologetic challenge and the way he eventually yields it.

He swallows the defense aching to burst free, deciding that spending too long explaining why wearing his helmet isn't hiding, actually, will likely have the opposite than desired effect. Instead:

"It seems we're all famous here. Doesn't it. I wonder which of your exploits caught our hosts' attention..."

Ronan had been hoping to hear the defense, the justification, as much as of the story as Kylo's willing to tell. The premise sounds like a tale his father would have told, this knight whose geis forbade him from revealing his true face because too much else would be revealed about him along with it.

Turnabout is fair play.

"Are you trying to ask me what I think it was?"

Admittedly interrogation play is a lot less fun without the ability to pull Ronan's secrets right out of his head. Kylo watches him with an amusement that feels very nearly fond— certainly appreciative.

"I'm curious," he admits. "Surely it has to be more than a history of picking fights in the hope that your opponents will knock you unconscious."

Ronan breathes a soft laugh, though his humor evaporates almost instantly as his thoughts turn in the direction of the world he just left behind. The life he just left behind.

...Assuming he left at all. Maybe he's still asleep. Maybe he'll never wake up.

"I was trying to free magic," Ronan says. His eyes are open again, unwilling to stay in the dark, which suddenly feels bottomless. Infinite. "It's been trapped for as long as anyone can remember, tied to ley lines. It was being strangled. I wanted it to be everywhere, so I started destroying everything that got in the way."

Kylo digests that confession for a while, nothing but the sound of their breathing breaking the silence between them. He imagines a world without the heaving tide of the Force flowing through and tugging on everything, a reality where it had been tamed into lines— like trading corridors between planets, or water trained into canals.

Hideous.

"Unnatural," he comments. "If magic is what you call the Force. That's the name we give it, where I am from. The connection between all things. The strain and balance surrounding, penetrating and binding together everything that exists. Anything made to limit it should be destroyed."

The room is a forest of swords. Hundreds of them, stuck into every surface like pins in a cushion. The mattresses and pillows are stabbed through as if a rain of swords fell from above, though of course they did not fall. They've embedded themselves there without human hands or gravity to guide them. The bedframes and canopy poles are splintered where broadswords and rapiers have become wedged in the wood. The stone walls and the decor are lost behind a frost of hilts climbing all the way to the ceiling. The floor is overgrown with sharp blades, some of them stabbed into it and some growing out of it.

The dreamer is spared, though he can't lift his head to see if any other sleepers are present or whether his roommates are in the same ruined state as the furniture. Like some kind of carnival trick, Ronan is sprawled out on the bed while sword blades stick out from everything that isn't a part of his body.

He's paralyzed. He always is, when he brings something back with him. In this case, he's brought almost a thousand somethings back with him, and all he can do is contemplate the disaster while he waits to return to his body. No one is screaming and he can't tell whether that's because they're still asleep or they're already dead or they had the good fortune of partying too late to end up at ground zero.

Unnatural. In the most literal sense.

"Exactly!" Ronan hisses as he sits up, forgetting the assignment entirely. What a fucking relief to find someone who agrees with him! He'd been starting to worry he'd lost his mind or lost touch with reality or something, because he was the only one — the only one — who felt this way.

"It was so weak I couldn't even feel it most of the time. Whenever I did, it felt like... like coming back to life. Like I was dead before that. But then it'd fade again and I'd go right back to dying. Do you feel the Force all the time?"

This time, Kylo doesn't scold or so much as raise an eyebrow as Ronan starts upright. He watches him instead, recognising the ferocity of his reaction as a very familiar flavour of relief.

Ronan, Kylo suspects, hasn't had a lot of support in his quest.

"Always," he says. Even now, with his connection dulled and muted he can still feel something. "Without it there is no life. The Force is life. Every living thing knows it. Even those who try to deny the truth. They know it. Deep within. They know what they are."

Listening to Kylo describe it makes Ronan ache, the words chiseling away at the wall he so hastily constructed around his heart during the last dream. These are the words he's been waiting to hear. He's been waiting for them for so long that it's hard to trust them now. The stare he fixes on Kylo is more scrutinizing than meditative, searching rather than reflecting.

It's very easy to see how Kylo might be one of his. It feels a little like looking into a funhouse mirror, some details drawn forward and others pushed back. Did his subconscious create a home out of fairytales to replace the one he lost? Did he make a more desirable, more entertaining companion to watch over him? How is he supposed to tell whether this is a fantasy?

Ronan looks away.

"They cut me off from it. Before I got here. They want me to die."

Another pause follows. Kylo doesn't need access to the inner workings of Ronan's heart to recognise the current running through them both, an unexpected commonality.

"They're afraid," he murmurs. "Addicted to their own limitations. If you refuse to accept them, they will do everything in their power to destroy you."

Power, of course, being the key. Kylo's gaze has drifted back to his hands. His fingers curl. Nothing happens.

"You'll see. When the haze lifts. I'll show you why they will always fail."

[ OPEN ] pre-event (until...)

room 2 | june 12 | closed to kylo ren

room 2 | june 13 | open to roommates

the library | june 13 | open to all

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room 2 | june 19 | open to roommates

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